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I saw a woman, wearing a red dress with long silk threads for legs; naked as the first fallen snowangel imprint; wearing an oversized hoodie & baggy jeans underneath the monk hood.
She looked like catherine the great, was as simple as joan of ark, was as transparent as a convulsing crack addict cruising the strip of multiple personality lane.
I'm not sure if I dick van dyke triple taked or if all three existed simultaneously on the multilevels of dimensional asphalt cake.
See, in the figment of my mind I am meeting my partner titled myself luminesced in the other half of my own real marriage inside my nervous tree. i would say system but sometimes it feels more self organized than any man made word should be given credit for.
I feel like it grows and twists where it wants and Im not sure if pruning it with mass-media or letting the winds of void shape the branches of my thoughts would be the best recourse.
When I was small the world was so vibrant that I wore sunglasses most of the time to deal with the intensity.
Now it seems the world is still as vibrant, but the guilt and shame of overpowering my better judgement for the selfish means that creep in as if by tendriled highway have made me feel grey and dull as the chalky remnants of broken pavement choking on the new microorganisms underneath its icing layer.
Like a spoon on constant rinse, insant chinese water torture chamber chip away.
Sometimes it feels like the messiness that has become us, all the baggage we carry should be burned up by pure intention instead of donated to the landfill of greater human misery.
This goes out to all the loves lost, all the broken dreams and all the memories half frozen in embarassment it was fun while it lasted but the psycholical alchohol trough is closed go feed somewhere more nourishing, I suggest the milk and honey cafe located somewhere where the heart beat originates.Youll find it tastes better and you can walk in a straight line after; instead of dizzying scribbles of gurgled conciousness.
"I hope this finds you well", right now I am writing a letter to my feminine side you think I am getting sidetracked but really dear reader you and I are traveling through a labrynth of lost souls known as fragmented states of emotion and I am houscleaning as we go along buffing walls knocking down doors sweeping up debris and catalouging it all in tandem.
From the outside looking in my feminine side is running frantic trying to escape the demons that are chasing it in ghostly fashion fashioned from memories that happened in the past so long ago that even I have trouble recalling the blade that dealt the wound.
She is running form me.
But I feel the scars.
I am the scars healed, but still available.
When I look in the mirror at the long corridor of truth that caresses that little scared girl, with her trembling arms and heaving shoulders. With the delicate dress ripped to oneside and a gashed knee exposed I see myself for the first time, a man of 27 yrs of age, afraid of frailty, honesty and being disliked.
In the annals of intelect the feminine is intuitive while the masculine is practical.
In the annals of imagination where all worlds converge into one, my feminine side is screaming for me to put down the gun.
All men are taught to assasinate, shoot to kill aim for the target 100 point bullseye sharpshooter death knell.
"Shoot her you fucking pussy are you not man enough?!?"
Sometimes my feminine side shows up as a fawn; doe eyed, helpless fear trembling and making its whole hindquarters quiver.
I just look and something inside so ancient switches on. no occilations just a direct current of "oh shit."
I can't kill myself anymore.
Dear reader what would you do just point and shoot some nintendo pixelated duckhunt adventure?
So easily detach like so much cheap delapitated velcro, blame the glue for the lack of cohesiveness between your triggerfinger and your concience?
Well, I set my gun to oneside and asked for flowers in its place because the powers of color shape and scent are one in this magnificent word (flowher) flower; and voila from the barrel as if by clown magic a dozen of every kind of fragrant shape appeared.
I became suffocated by the pollen and sneezed into eternity knocking down the walls that sever my right from my left.
Here comes Kali raging
You can call this an allergic wedding, all things have their place and time and mine came and still is happening NOW.
part of me cowers in the corner, the other is debilitated in a fit of achoos.
I realize dear reader this is what is known as a cliffhanger but so it goes for although there is no danger in death by gun, a part of me dies everytime I deny her. And yet to be filled with the force of life itself all at once this two is too much.
SO here is my question to the universe, maybe in the spaciousess of these electronic signals the answer will arise to greet me like so many glyphs in english summer crop.
Where are the instruction manuals for both sides of me, because one side is broken and the other side is rusted?
What parts do I order what oil do I take?
I need the manual for how to become a successful hemaphrodite.
I lost my manual can I borrow yours?
9:13 AM
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